


The Weight of Silence

by Marzipanmadness



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, trust me it's cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 14:43:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2696735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marzipanmadness/pseuds/Marzipanmadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fall in love with someone who’s comfortable with your silence. Find someone who doesn’t need your words to know it’s time to kiss you.”<br/>-Clairabelle Ann</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Weight of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just a short little bit of fluff, slightly Christmassy, but not much. It was more a response to this quote I found on tumblr a few days ago.  
> I hope to write more fics soon, one can never simply write just ONE fic, can they?

Sometimes silence is golden. The absence of distractions in the flat makes it so Sherlock can distill his thoughts, catalogue them, put them away for later. He sits in his chair, elbows rested atop his knees, hands clasped and chin rested on his thumbs. Occasionally there's a click of the heat turning on, or the building groaning, adjusting to the chill of London air in December. If he focuses, really, really thinks hard on it, he can hear Mrs. Hudson downstairs shuffling through her kitchen in her slippers, adjusting her jumper around her shoulders. It's too big for her—has she lost weight? He makes a mental note to record his observations on her eating habits for the next two weeks at least. It could be nothing. No, likely something is troubling her. She's checked the kettle twice now. Why?

A motorbike roars as it passes by, far too loudly. Compensation for something? He thinks, listens for telltale signs of engine manufacturers. It's an expensive bike, likely comes from money then. Why the alteration? It's too loud to be a subtle way to pick up women. Must be some sort of retaliation. Neighbors? Ex-lover? Parents. The rider comes from Old Money. Parents took away her car, so she bought a motorbike instead. Female? Yes, slows too much at the corner. Value of safety despite the reckless mode of transportation, on top of engine modifications suggests female.

He huffs out a lungful of air, clearing the distraction. His eyes are open, staring solidly ahead at the flat. Nothing moves. Almost. The window allows a stream of afternoon sunlight in. The light warms the floor where it touches. That side of the room is nearly three degrees warmer, he decides, noticing the side of his face as the air touches his skin. The dust. The dust, it moves through the beam of light in waves. It seems random, sporadic. He watches, notices how his own breath changes the air currents of the room ever so slightly.

It's odd, the quiet. Sherlock is always the bringer of chaos for so many around him. Behind him trails a wake of gunshots and sirens. Chaos and disorder are his lifeblood. Why is it then, that the silence does not drive him mad? Before John, his bouts of boredom were far more severe. One momentary break in his cases would nearly cause his mind to shatter into hundreds of infinitely loud pieces. Too many thoughts running around, unwilling to be captured and tamed. With nothing to focus on, his mind was wild. When John came, he brought the silence with him. First, he showed Sherlock how to listen to the noise. (Of course, this is a metaphor. Sherlock is perfectly capable, more so than most, of listening.) Instead of letting everything permeate into his mind to be sorted later, John's methodical, military precision narrowed Sherlock's focus in times of chaos.

Then, it was John's own noise that broke the endless void of quiet. Sometimes when he read the paper he would rub his hand across his chin, the sound of his stubble against his fingers scratching at Sherlock's ears from across the room. His breaths, hollow and whole, audible from anywhere in the flat but quiet enough to not be bothersome. They were the breaths of a soldier who had once learned to breathe soundlessly. John clears his throat out of habit when he finds something surprising or awkward. The sound is usually followed by a squint of his eyes, then a choked "What?" Sherlock hears this often. It's crazy, but sometimes Sherlock even thinks he can hear John blink.

He listens so carefully to everything that makes the flat alive when John is around. But John is at work. There is no one here. Just waiting. Just silence. Sherlock sits like this for hours, accounting for everything he hears that assures him that time has not stood still, that the world still turns when John is not home. He watches the sun descend, evident by the changing shapes against the wallpaper and rapidly cooling air seeping in through the cracks of the windows. Time slips, as if the world itself gets bored without John there too.

Cab door closes. "Thanks, mate." A distant voice. John.

Sherlock considers staying there in the same spot he was when John left that morning. It would surely cause the doctor to frown at him, ask him if he's moved at all. He hasn't, obviously. Pulling the concern out of him would be self indulging. Not that it would be the first time Sherlock has purposefully taken advantage of John's impulse to care for everyone around him. The front door clicks shut. John's footsteps on the steps. It hasn't been a stressful day. His feet are even and light. He still cares enough to not pound up the stairs like Sherlock does. John knows Mrs. Hudson hates when he does that. He's carrying bags.

Stay or move? Stay... or... no. Too late. The door opens and the silence halts. Yes, the silence itself halts. How odd.

"Sherlock?" John says, staring into the darkened flat, eyes adjusting. The sun had set nearly forty-five minutes ago. He must see him sitting there in the chair, staring like a stony guardian. Perhaps he's incredulous. "Why... why are you sitting in the dark, Sherlock?"

"Why else?" comes Sherlock's terse reply.  


John only rolls his eyes and sighs. He crosses the room and turns on a light, sets the bags down in the kitchen, closes the curtains, picks up an untouched cup of tea from that morning. "Have you sat there all day?" There it is. Sherlock doesn't answer. He stares, fixated still, curious about exactly what it is that makes John's presence different. John's voice is smooth today. He's used it, broken it in throughout his day. It's not the gravely, low tone he usually has in the mornings or late at night when he's tired. It's silky. Like milk. "Get up," he hears John order. The command in his tone jarring something in the back of Sherlock's mind, compelling him to comply.

Sherlock stands, fabric of his trousers adjusting slightly, springs of the chair squeaking. His hands fall to his sides, fingers flexing. He looks to John, as if in asking for his next order. _Yes doctor, what next?_

"It's been hours, you must be hungry." John leaves him standing there and steps into the kitchen. He kicks off his shoes and picks up the bags from the floor where he left them. There's fabric inside of them, something plastic, something... furry? No, it's tinsel. Plastic balls, strands of lights. John has picked up decorations from the shop on the way home.

"Not really," Sherlock breathes heavily, and crosses his arms across his stomach. There's an uncomfortable feeling where the silence had been lingering all day. Now that he's stood up and shaken off all the quiet, his nerve cells were firing off all at once. It was a buzzing feeling. Not pleasant. Must think of something to distract himself. He shuffles loudly towards the sofa and sits cross-legged, tucking his toes under his thighs. "A bit late in the decorating, aren't you?" He chides, "It's only twenty days until Christmas. I nearly thought you had spared me and forgotten all about it."

There's a breathy "Ha!" from the kitchen. The rustling of bags, plastic crinkling and shifting until it's stuffed up and put away. He hears the hollow plastic balls touch as John picks them up. A second later John ducks around the corner and tosses one to Sherlock, who catches it with one hand and scowls at it. It's not even good quality. John had picked them up at the supermarket on the way home. Tiny bits of glitter come off on his fingers when he runs them across the matte surface of red and golden-glitter stripes.

John is in front of the mantle now, back turned to him, arms up as he drapes some strands of warm-white lights he had twirled around tinsel garlands, silver and shining even in the dim incandescent light. Sherlock watches as the knitted jumper John wears shifts across his shoulders, wrinkling slightly when he raises his arms and stretching when he spreads them wide. He tries not to imagine the muscles beneath his skin stretching and constricting with each movement, what that would look like under his shoulder blades, what it would sound like, _feel_  like to press his nose and forehead against John's spine and listen to his body move.

Blink. Not a safe train of thought. Not even sure where that came from.

It seems John knows his thoughts. He turns his head to Sherlock and looks at him over his shoulder. "Are you alright? You seem strange tonight." So perceptive, there may be hope for him yet.

"Fine, John." Sherlock waves the cheap plastic ball dismissively. "Carry on with your tedious attempt at sentiment."

John shrugs, then continues.

The silence he had just a few hours ago decided was glorious and beautiful now shadowed over him as he looked at his flatmate, his friend. He usually had such cutting words of wit on hand at any moment, ready to let fly at every opportunity. Right now, all he can do is stare and wonder at the buzzing feeling in his bones. There must be something he can do to shake it. Noise, noise. Where to find some noise? His eyes dart to the window, where his violin was leaning against the wall.

Swiftly, he crosses the gap, stepping on and over the table, avoiding John's personal space for once. He picks it up, and it hums in his hands when his fingers touch the strings, grip around the neck of it. The bow swishes in the air as he flicks it up and around, turning toward the window, away from John. A controlled disruption of the quiet. Perfect idea, really.

He feels John's eyes on him, the rustling of plastic has ceased for a moment as John's hands still above the mantle and Sherlock's hands poise above the instrument. A for a beat, the silence from before returns. The shallow breaths, the heartbeats, the subtle rustle of fabric as John shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It's the content, patient, expectant silence. _Yes, John. Give me your attention. All of it. I want all of it,_  Sherlock thinks.

His impulse is to draw the bow quickly over the strings in a sudden burst of sound, wreck the pristine perfection of the moment. It was what he intended to do, after all. But the eyes watching him, the heavy weight of John's attention draws it for him, softly, in a soft and kind note. _Are you watching?_  A question. Sherlock stares out the window, wind beating softly against the glass, streetlights illuminating the street in a soft orange glow. He sorts through a few measures of various preludes, a couple nocturnes, not settling on anything for long enough to get into anything. John continues with his decorating.

They spend a little while like this, John cheerily streaming lights and tacky streams of poorly made plastic about the flat. It's downright festive by the end of it. Sherlock continues to flit between composers, between sonatas, between thoughts, until John collapses onto the sofa, once again settling his eyes onto Sherlock. How is it he can always feel his gaze, his admiration, when it is upon him. A shudder shakes through his spine and he shifts into a composition of his own. A few minutes of this before John disrupts his thoughts. 

"Are you composing again?" he asks, conversationally.

Sherlock answers with a twill of the vibrato along the strings. _Maybe. Do you like it?_

"I like it." John plays with his fingers, holding them above his chest. "It's haunting."

He means it as a compliment, an observation. Perhaps he is trying to deduce something about what Sherlock is thinking. The music isn't changing much of anything, much to Sherlock's dismay. He shifts into a more obvious minor key, plays deeper notes, slower.

"This isn't about the decorations is it? You're not brooding because I felt like coming home and being festive for once?" There's a wry smile on John's face, Sherlock can hear it through his voice.

Sherlock chuckles a little. He plucks a few notes amidst his own melody: _deck the halls with boughs of holly_. It's humorous. John laughs. Oh, that laugh. Full of warm breath and a scrunched up nose. Sherlock wonders what it would sound like as music. He tries to replicate it.

A melancholy falls over the room in absence of John's laugh. Sherlock draws one last long note over the strings, then lowers the instrument to his side, and stares out the window. The street is empty. Has been empty. No distractions around to pull him away. His eyes adjust to look at the reflection in the glass of the twinkling lights amidst shiny baubles that cast colors across the ceiling in geometric shapes, reflecting the hope, the promise of... something.

Despite his better judgment, he darts his eyes over to John as he turns to face the room, leaning the violin where it was before. John's right arm is tucked under his head, propping it up so he can see the room without leaning or straining his neck. His jumper lies just barely covering his stomach where it meets his belt, left arm laying across his chest. Sherlock's tongue is thick, as he swallows audibly.

John pats the sofa, and scoots his feet up to make room. "Come on, then." An invitation, a request. Should he decline? Claim to be exhausted and retire up to his bedroom so he can lie in bed and stare at the ceiling in silence some more? Or...

His body answers for him, padding over to the end of the sofa and sitting softly. He leans against the cushions, lets them hold him, calm him. John tucks his sock-clad toes under his thighs. They watch the lights twinkle for a few minutes, not a word between them, just the occasional wiggle of John's toes and the steady breaths from both sets of lungs.

Every time his mind kicks up a swirl of words and thoughts, threatening to become a tornado of worries and concern, John's toes move and ground him again into the moment. He's on the sofa sitting beside his best friend in a dimly lit room, and it's alright. He glances over at John, and catches his eyes. John, expressive, caring John. He blinks slowly, then smiles. _Whatever it is, it's okay,_  his cheeks, his eyelashes say.

The air floods out of Sherlock's lungs. How is it John is always so calm, so steady, so still? How, when all Sherlock brings to him is danger and adrenaline? Sherlock is a roaring ocean, tearing away and drowning everything in it. How is John still a babbling bloody brook? How is everything always just... okay with him.

The buzzing of his skin, the John-centric silence, the heavy feeling between his ribs when he holds John's attention... John is the only thing that can take all of the discord and make it better. He is a doctor, his doctor. It makes sense he would know what to do. It makes sense. It all makes sense.

John sits up, feet still tucked away, and wraps his arms around his own knees. He narrows his eyes at Sherlock. He knows something. What is it? Sherlock scans his face, looks for clues. Ears, pink, warm. Happy? Content? Embarrassed? Cheek, missed a spot shaving this morning, still smells like shaving cream a little. Was in a hurry this morning? Running late? Hair, mussed up especially in the back where the sofa cushion pushed up against the back of his head. Comfort in his appearance around a friend? Perhaps he doesn't know? Neck, warm under the fabric gathered up around his collar as the jumper rides up a little bit. Eyes, heavy. Pupils, dilating, contracting, a question. Lips...

One corner of John's mouth curves. Sherlock looks away, toward the twinkling lights. John swallows and breathes in contentedly. The air between them is heavy. When he looks back towards John, he can't hide the twitch of his own lips in an almost syllable, almost smile. John just smiles like, _It's okay_ , and reaches his hand out to still Sherlock's face beneath his warm palm.

The feeling is both jarring and soothing. He freezes, doesn't want to cause John to move his hand away, and yet the skin around his face relaxes, melts away. The warmth of his fingers spreads out through his body like tendrils of warm fire-heat. John rubs his thumb across Sherlock's skin and that's it. That's all he can think. His mind is only muttering a mantra now of _I love you I love you I love you_. When did that start? Had it always been there? Strange, to learn something new about oneself, changing everything you once knew.

John is perceptive, he knows. He knew, perhaps. Well, no matter. He surely knows now. And it's okay. It's okay because he's still running his thumb from the corner of Sherlock's mouth to the top of his cheekbone, all with heavy eyes and, and...

Then everything stops. Time, space, gravity, everything. John leans, closes the already narrow gap and touches his lips to Sherlock's. The buzzing swells into a hum, everywhere, everywhere. His heart drops, physically impossible, and yet he has just felt the sensation in his very own body. John is still very softly lingering at the contact. An attempt at being subtle? No, obviously not. Giving him time to adjust? More likely. Always the thoughtful one, John.

If he stays frozen he risks miscommunicating shock and uncertainty for rejection. Instead, Sherlock lets his hands rise up to John's neck and sighs though his nose, pushing back, leaning back, kissing back. _I love you._

John's eyelashes flutter briefly over Sherlock's cheek. An acceptance, comfort, welcome. How long has he thought of this? Wondered at the texture of John's hair, the tastes of his mouth, the sound of his breath beside his ears? How is it possible to only discover these thoughts now, when he knows he's had them for months now at least, if not always. Since the beginning of time he has wanted to trace his lips across the soft corners of John, kissing them into a blur of noise and silence.

A sound escapes from the depths of Sherlock's ribs, somewhere between his lungs and his heart. It sounds like an _oh_. It sounds like a _please_. It sounds like a _thank you_. John forgets himself, presses harder, runs his tongue across Sherlock's bottom lip, gripping and carding his fingers though his hair and pressing on all of the escaping thoughts in Sherlock's head, keeping them in, keeping them safe.

He does feel safe. Despite the anxiety that this should be brewing inside Sherlock, he is perfectly content to lose his control. If anyone can hold him together it would be John. He trusts the calmness that surrounds them, and lets himself devour John, lets his hands grab and pet at John's neck and chest, and revels in the feeling of John's hands in his hair. He can feel John smile against his lips and it's _wonderful_. It's more than wonderful. It's perfect.

Before he knows it, he finds himself leaning over John on the sofa, body fitted between John's knees, limbs draped carelessly over him. He realizes he may have crossed a line and slows, pulls away, assesses the damage. John's elevated heart rate is sporadic. Adrenaline. Excitement. Arousal? Shallow breath. Dilated pupils. Lips pink from contact. He doesn't get any more observations from him before John huffs a little laugh and pulls him down to lie next to/over him. He pushes Sherlock's head to rest on his shoulder. How does he know? How does he always know? Did he always know?

The wait of apprehension lifts from Sherlock's shoulders and everything spins again. The wind touches the glass, the first drops of rain tap on the roof. Mrs. Hudson's telly cheers. The pipes creak. John's heart beats beneath his ear as he pushes his nose against the top of Sherlock's head. It kind of sounds like _I love you too_.

 


End file.
